Laugh Like Crazy

As I have been know to say, there is an expiration date on trauma of all kinds. With that in mind, I think that it is time for me to stop wallowing. It is time for me to pick myself-up, give myself a good hard slap across the face and get my shit together.

I am cleaning my disastrous apartment this weekend, getting back on a reasonable diet (yes, no more burying my sorrows in bagels and deli chicken!), buying some new panties (the dry cleaners have stolen all but three of my rattie thongs, some of them over 5 years old. I know, it's gross), going out with my friends and cutting the self-pitying shit fest. I'm not saying that I am going to be Little Miss Sunshine, but misery does not suit me, and if I am really honest with myself, I have little to be so God damned miserable about.

I have really pussed-up over the years, my threshold for pain has diminished as I have insulated myself from it in many forms. I am the woman who went through combat training with a broken foot! I am the woman who has given-up everything in the name of adventure, more than once! I am the woman who has had her heart shattered and soldiered on completely alone!

Right now I have an ex who is still my best friend, I have a best friend who is coming to live with me, I have enough friends in New York that I can hide my neediness by spreading the wealth. Imay not have the job of my dreams, but I am certainly heading in the right direction with all my extracurriculars. Oh, and the piece de le resistance' is the fact that despite the last two weeks of binge eating, God has decided to bless me by letting me keep my lovely figure, not gaining a pound. (I also have a theory that stress and pain burn calories!) All in all, my life is good. I just need to take-off my shit-colored glasses. My situation is the best case scenario, and one that never happens to anyone. I can be pretty ungrateful sometimes. I think that is the key, being thankful for fuck sake.

So, here we go again! I am going to my CookShop instructor training course tomorrow, followed by afternoon drinks with my fabulous girlfriend Erin. she is witty, fun and brilliant and I am totally psyched to be meeting up with her tomorrow. Sunday is a grand Bo Ssam dinner with the EWI girls, and this is my pre-birthday week! I started the year off with more of a bomb than a bang, maybe I can ring in my 26th year with dry eyes and a happy heart. Perspective, it is all about perspective, and in 26 years, I certainly hope I have gained that in spades!

Yes, it is time. Head held high, emotions on a short leash, living the fabulous life I have crafted in the greatest city on earth! Enough of my dribble, it is back to our regular scheduled program, adventure and drama, highs and not so many lows, food and friends and comically pathetic situations that only I seem to find myself in!

The Office:

Just today I found myself in a deranged version of "Office Space". In my current little hole in the wall, I am forced to cohabitat and try to get work done with a mousy man and a rather rotund and vivacious woman. Trying to type my version of "tps reports" this morning, I was distracted by her high pitched cackle, interrupted only by her incessant munching and his strange and increasingly forward come-ons. She sat there munching on her breakfast of 5 cheesy scrambled eggs, frequently spraying out of her mouth in a fine mist as she told some mind numbing story about the sores on her legs and Shade's newest album. The young man meanwhile continued his new habit of singing "Felicia, Felicia" under his breath. Weird right? Well, he explained the song today, sadly, making it even stranger.

Apparently he is singing the line from the Wyclef/Shakira song, "Hips Don't Lie", replacing the "Shakira, Shakira" with "Felicia, Feliciaaaa". Hmm. Slightly disturbing. He then proceeded to lean over my shoulder and whisper in my ear, "You look very 1940's today", which by the way, I did not. This is his new go-to compliment. Later in the day, he described my walk as, "confident, sultry 40's".What the fuck. I informed him that he is playing with fire and that people who sneak-up behind me while I am working are more than likely going to get elbowed in the gut. He chuckled and started humming his "Felicia Song" again.

My large female co-worker began to tell us about her new diet, cutting out her bacon sandwiches. She was explaining this dietary change while eating the marshmallow off of her Little Debbie Snowballs. I could not make this shit up. In between all this fun, we had patients coming to the window needing assistance. Though it is not my job, I ended-up fielding many of the phone calls and requests because one co-worker was too busy trying to get the cheese danish goo off of her fingers (again, complete nonfiction), and the other was busy trying to sound important while on the phone with a patient in need of a pick-up. Yes, this is the office where I am supposed to be writing reports and researching new discharge efficiency plans. Thank God my bosses figured out that perhaps this was not the best environment for me and have agree to give me back my private office on Monday.

I did get the distinct pleasure of watching these two buffoons get lambasted by at 77 year old man. (side bar: "Hips Don't Lie" just came on the radio, it is officially ruined for me!) Yes, this delightful old man decided to scream at the young man, telling him that he would slap the glasses right off his smug little face if he gave him any shit, also mentioning that he felt he was a lazy bastard. Then turning his attention to the protesting, face-stuffer, he informed her that she needed to be quiet and stop trying to be cute, because there wasn't nothin cute about her. I watched with a mix of pity and glee. It was just such a perfect piece of insanity for our little loony bin. After he stormed-off, they spent the better part of the next hour consoling one another and making proclamations of the come-backs they should have used and would use next time.

This would make for good television, but when it is your actual job, your actual life; you're left with only two options: slit your wrists with your paperclips or laugh. Clearly, I have made my choice.Depression or hysteria? Well, both are crazy, but the latter sure is a lot more fun!